Page 12 of Transatlantic Terror Cruise

My foot catches on something soft and I stumble, catching myself on a chair before turning to see what tripped me.

It looks like a discarded coat.

I pull out my phone, point the flashlight at the ground, and gasp.

It’s not a discarded coat.

It’s the guest of honor, sprawled on the ground, lying on his stomach with his eyes staring vacantly to the side.

And judging by that knife sticking out of his back—Brad Whipple is dead.

CHAPTER6

Ascream rips from my throat before I can stop it, echoing off the lounge walls like a soprano practicing her vocal scales.

Brad Whipple lies face-down on the cold hardwood floor with that vintage serial killer’s knife jutting from his back at a hard angle. The smell of coffee and donuts mingles with something metallic and my stomach churns because of it.

“Bravo!” Nettie claps as both she and Bess suddenly materialize in this dimly lit space behind the makeshift stage.

The Neptune Lounge is filled to the gills with fans from far and near, anxious to hear everything Brad Whipple has to say regarding killers and homicides alike. And, well, now, it doesn’t look like he’ll be saying a word to anyone ever again.

“That’s some grade-A screaming right there,” Nettie continues while elbowing me in the ribs and winking. “Practicing for the honeymoon suite, are we?”

“Nettie!” Bess swats her arm. “Must you be so crass? Besides, not all of us scream at the top of our lungs behind bedroom doors.”

“And it shows,” Nettie says without missing a crass beat.

“Never mind that,” Bess says, waving her off. “Trixie, what’s going on? What in the world are you screaming at? Do we need to call—” She freezes mid-sentence once she spots the deceased. And just like that, both women unleash screams that could wake the dead—or in this case, the already dead.

And sadly, their screams don’t seem to be working in that capacity.

Before I can stop the aria at hand, Elodie bursts in with her heels clicking against the hardwood like a tap-dancing telegram of doom. She takes one look at the scene—more specifically, the body—and tosses her hands in the air.

“My goodness”—she scolds right at me—“you just couldn’t wait to get your hands dirty again, or should I saybloody? A knife to the back? Really? Look at that pool of crimson he’s lying in. For the love of all things evil, Trixie, think of the cleaning crew. Bloodstains are such a nightmare to deal with.”

“But”—I scoff at the sassy blonde before me. “Elodie, I didn’t?—”

“Oh hush, you.” She waves a finger at me to do just that. “You’re always coming at us with excuses. What is it this time? He just happened to fall on a knife. In your vicinity.Again.”

I gasp her way. “Actually?—”

“You know”—she continues, pacing around the body with a frown as if she’s judging a particularly disappointing art installation—“most people bring back seashells from their honeymoon. You bring back bodies.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bess says while fanning herself with her fingers, most likely to keep from fainting.

I shake my head at the three of them. “For your information, I haven’t even been on my honeymoon for more than twenty-four hours.”

Elodie’s mouth falls open. “I think she’s threatening us with more bodies. I’d watch your back, girls.” She nods to Bess and Nettie. “And I’d especially watch out for errant knives.”

I’m about to form my rebuttal when a six-foot wall of muscles jumps into our midst.

“Wes,” I practically shout as the captain steps in close.

“What’s going on? What’s with the screams? I just stepped into the lounge and heard a choir of terror going off.” His captain’s uniform looks so pristine in this dim light it practically glows—lots of white, lots of brass, lots of clout. Wes is tall, a wall of muscles himself, and those green eyes of his could make any woman weak in the knees. But right now, those eyes are narrowed my way with suspicion.

He wasn’t all that thrilled that I had chosen Ransom to have my happily ever after with, but he was kind enough to accept the fact and even officiated the two of us as we tied the knot.

“Trixie,” Wes says my name like a reprimand. “Again?”

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